y mines."

He paused. He was conscious that he had not succeeded in controlling a
certain pride in the tone of his voice, and he stopped to remedy it. In
truth, he _was_ proud. No one but the man who has struggled and labored
for that sum, unaided and alone, knows how hard it is to win it, and how
rare and splendid has been his own success. He has seen others go down
on all sides of him like grain before the scythe, while he stood
upright. He knows of disappointed hopes, of bitter effort ended in the
grave; of men, strong and fearless as himself, who have striven
desperately, and as desperately failed. He was silent for a moment,
thinking of these things.

"It must be pleasant to have so much money," said Anne, sighing a
little, and turning her slipper point slightly, as though to survey it
in profile.

Dexter went on with his tale. He was as much for the moment absorbed in
himself as she was in herself; they were like two persons shut up in
closely walled towers side by side.

"For some years I have lived at the East, and have been much in what is
called society in New York and Washington," he continued, "and I have
had no cause to be dissatisfied with the reception accorded to me. I
have seen many beautiful faces, and they have not entirely withheld
their kindness from me. But--Miss Douglas, young girls like romance, and
I have, unfortunately, little that I can express, although I believe
that I have at heart more true chivalry toward women than twenty of the
idle _blase_ men about here. But that had been better left unsaid. What
I wish to say to you is this: will you be my wife? Anne, dear child,
will you marry me?" He had ended abruptly, and even to himself
unexpectedly, as though his usually fluent speech had failed him. He
took her hand, and waited for her answer, his face showing signs of
emotion, which seemed to be more his own than roused by anything in her.

Anne had started back in surprise; she drew her hand from his. They
were both gloved; only the kid-skins had touched each other. "You are
making a mistake," she said, rising. "You think I am Mrs. Lorrington."

Dexter had risen also; an involuntary smile passed over his face at her
words. He took her hand again, and held it firmly.

"Do you not suppose I know to whom I am talking?" he said, "I am talking
to you, Anne, and thinking only of you. I ask you again, will you be my
wife?"

"Of course not. You do not love me in the least, and I do not love